


Whispers in the Night.

by noctecat



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Community: wrestlingkink, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noctecat/pseuds/noctecat
Summary: Alternately titled, 'What Nikki Cross Saw On The Roof That Night.'





	Whispers in the Night.

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is a fill for a prompt at the Wrestling Kink Meme, which can be found here: https://wrestlingkink2.dreamwidth.org/423.html?thread=601255#cmt601255
> 
> 'I was watching old episodes of NXT and Nikki Cross says she basically saw Ciampa and Dream doing something while she was up on the roof but she never said what they were doing. Would like the author to fill in the blank. It could be something sexual or you could go the funny route and have it be ridiculous.'
> 
> (I tried to get a little bit of both?)

“I know you can do it,” Ciampa said, his voice low and gruff. Lower than it needed to be - it wasn’t as though there would be many people out and about on the streets below at this time of night, but still. This wasn’t the type of deal he wanted to be yelling from the rooftops for every NXT talent and otherwise in the vicinity to hear. “I know you can get me what I want.” He took a small step forward, not intentionally threatening, but if it happened to have that effect? Well, that was a bonus.

The Velveteen Dream - the one, the only - seemed unperturbed, however, leaning back against the railing with arms crossed over his chest. His gaze remained steady on Ciampa, who found his own eyes flickering around constantly, on alert for anyone who might happen to stumble upon their little clandestine meeting, feet ready to run and fist ready to fly, whatever should save him some face more. When Dream spoke, his voice was playful, amused, even, “I can, can I?”

Ciampa had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Being nice to other people, having to rely on them to get things he wanted - it was even more painfully tedious than he remembered. “Yes, you _can_.”

Dream rubbed at his chin, peering at Ciampa. “No, I don’t think I can.” Ciampa tried not to let the sheer _annoyance_ he felt at this, prickling on the back of his neck, like dealing with a _child_ , show on his face, but it must have slipped through somehow, because the corners of Dream’s mouth quirked upwards the smallest bit more. “I think Aleister Black is the one who can get you what you want.”

“Yes, but-”

“-but you won’t ask _him_. Why? Scared, Ciampa?”

Ciampa exhaled through gritted teeth. He reminded himself, as he inhaled again - in, out, in, out - that putting up with this, with _him_ , this enigmatic asshole who thought his smoke and mirrors made him something more than just a petulant man-child, would be all worth it in the end. “I’m not _scared_ , Dream. Even for _you,_ that’s ridiculous, don’t you think?.” Dream lifted an eyebrow slightly, but didn’t bite at the jab. “Thing is, Aleister and I...aren’t on the best of terms, if you remember. If I ask him directly, he’ll just say no,” Ciampa explained. He had considered it, of course, but every scenario he had run through, as he lay in his empty hotel bed staring at the ceiling, had always ended with him and Black coming to blows somehow, and never with him actually getting what he wanted. So a messenger pigeon of sorts was needed.

“But you think he’ll say yes if The Dream asks?” Ciampa’s chosen pigeon said. This time, it was Ciampa’s mouth that began to twist into its own smirk.

“Oh, he will.” Dream’s mouth opened to respond, likely argue, but Ciampa continued before he could let him, “I know about the little... _thing_ going on between the two of you.”

Dream’s gaze remained still, but Ciampa could have sworn he saw, even in the low light, it grow cooler. Dream was infuriatingly good at wearing a mask, but he still hadn’t quite mastered the art of quickly plastering up an exposed nerve. Despite this slip - Ciampa wasn’t even sure he had realized it - he let out a laugh in Ciampa’s face, bitter as it was. “Of all people, Ciampa, you should be the last judging someone for having a _thing_ with their opponent.”

Ciampa’s face stiffened, his smirk cracking and falling apart. “Stay out of my business and I’ll stay out of yours, Dream.” He _knew_ he heard Dream begin to murmur a petty comeback under his breath - _‘Business? More like bedroom…’_ \- but there was no time for this battle or Dream’s insistent pettiness. “Just ask Aleister,” he said, voice raised to be heard over the sarcastic muttering. “Convince him. I know you can.”

“You know, I'm sure Aleister has far more important things to focus his energy on than summoning up a luck spell for your fuckb-”

“Just. Ask. Him.” Ciampa was going to grind his own teeth down to his jawbone at this rate.

Dream let out a sharp, miffed exhale at Ciampa’s insistence, but didn’t take the argument further. Instead, he leaned further into his hand in silence for a second before this time asking“But what makes you think the Dream wants to help you? Hm?”

Ciampa had known this question would come. It had to. Dream wasn’t _that_ fond of Aleister, yet; he wanted something out of it for himself.

But - and this was crux of the matter - he _was_ fond of him.

“Because if you get Black to do this, then Johnny will win the title.” This wasn’t even the type of proposition Ciampa needed to sweeten with dubious promises and ego-inflating compliments. It almost made him sad that it had to play out in a meeting no one else would ever know of, because it was truly another stroke of his own genius; impossible to refuse. “And then _you_ can get a shot at the title, all without having to compromise your…’relationship’ with Aleister.”

For once, Dream stopped. His face grew serious, _thoughtful_ , which Ciampa hadn’t even been entirely sure was possible when it came to him. Dream seemed to be in a state of constant movement, soaring along on his own stream of evasive bullshit. He felt a buzzing glow explode within him, the same that he felt in the ring, when he hit that move, _the_ move, the one he knew would end it all, finish it. He had found his weakness and exploited it, dug his claws in and ripped it open, tearing apart his so carefully crafted shell of illusion and shadow. Dream himself was a selfish, egocentric bastard at best - but, as he had heard, once, somewhere, in a shitty novel or lowbrow magazine or B-tier film, _love_ was none of those things; love was selfless.

“And what about you?” When Dream finally spoke, he did so slowly, brain obviously still working over Ciampa’s words. This, admittedly, was a question Ciampa hadn’t prepared for. He blinked.

“What?”

“What will you do? Once Johnny has the title...won’t you just jump straight to the front of the line? Get your own shot?”

Ciampa felt his insides twist in an odd way at the question, all the way from his stomach up to his throat, which contracted and tightened. Dream was right; that would be the logical course of action. What anyone else would do, really. What someone like _Ciampa_ would do, certainly. He shifted on his feet, a subtle (he thought) act of casual movement in an attempt to hide that all his muscles, every last cell, all of a sudden wanted to bolt from this place, this person and this question.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It’s…” He flexed his fingers, feeling sweat gathering on his palms even in spite of the cooler night air. “It’s more complicated than that, Dream.”

Dream was quiet again; he was looking at him, analyzing his body language. Ciampa’s eyes busied themselves elsewhere, with the dots of light from distant buildings hanging in the yellow-grey sky over his shoulder, with the back-lit silhouettes of blinds hanging in the windows of nearby buildings, as though they had tonight become incredibly interesting in a way they never had before in the years that Ciampa had been here. He could feel that Dream was thinking again and it made him uncomfortable, even more than how angry he had always been at the idea that Dream was an airhead who had fluked his way to where he was. It almost made him nauseous, the _unpredictability_ of it all. He had never had this issue with others, not with someone like Johnny, some comfortably predictable in his sure heart and steadfast belief in himself. And Ciampa’s own heart, well, that spoke in black, and definitely not shades of grey.

Finally, Dream spoke, in a soft way that made Ciampa unsure if he was speaking to him at all, or just making aloud his own thoughts, “You don’t want what’s best for you, do you, Ciampa?” If Ciampa could move his jaw, which had decided to suddenly seize up and glue itself together, he would have done everything he could, say whatever he needed to, to stop Dream right there. But he couldn’t, and he continued, “You say you do, but you don’t. You want what’s best for _both_ of you. Which is why you can’t co-exist with him.”

Simultaneously, Ciampa felt a sting in his heart, as though a string had tightened itself a tad too much and snapped, and a hot, angry fire ignite within his belly. He decided he didn’t like it when Dream thought, at all. “You don’t know anything, Dream-”

“I _know_ that if you want me to do this,” Dream’s voice abruptly returned to normal - for Dream, at least - as he spoke again. His segue back into the topic of Ciampa’s proposition was so smooth that when Ciampa would look back on their conversation later, he’d wonder if Dream’s brief, painfully perceptive observation on him had even happened at all. “You’re going to have to pay.”

“Money? I thought you had more than enough of _that_ , Dream.”

“Oh, I do, Ciampa. Don’t fret about the Dream.” His expression was shifting again, an almost sinister smile spreading across his face, and he looked at Ciampa in a way that made him suddenly wary, and almost regretful he had ever asked. “No, your payment has to hurt, more than an exchange of money will.”

Ciampa’s frown grew deeper as he got the distinct feel that by ‘painful’, Dream didn’t just mean an opportunity for him to test out a new suckerpunch or submission hold on him. “Just tell me what you want, Dream.”

“What is the prince’s payment for awakening the princess from her hundred-year-slumber?”

The question confused Ciampa at first - admittedly, not unusual when it came to Dream - and he was certain Dream was messing with him, making fun of him. Then it clicked, the puzzle pieces falling together in his brain, and he wished Dream _had_ been messing with him. “No. What? No. Absolutely not.”

Dream was grinning at him now, laughing through his teeth at him. “Then the Dream isn’t talking to Aleister,” He teased, voice now taking on a disgustingly annoying sing-song tone.

If he had executed his finishing blow before, felt the golden rush of victory, now was the opposite; his stomach sunk with the feeling that Dream had won, here, got one over him. But he couldn’t wallow in the fact that - not that he would admit it - Dream had, if not outsmarted him, at least matched his sly act. He pulled himself together, again, reminded himself: it would be worth it. It would be.

If _this_ was the cost, it had to be.

He began to move towards Dream, then paused.

“ _Why_?”

Dream leaned in towards him, and with every, low-spoken word, Ciampa could now feel his breath - vaguely minty-sweet - in puffs on his skin. “You love Johnny Gargano, don’t you? Show me how much you love him.”

And so Ciampa sealed the deal with a kiss.

Just as he did, across the rooftop, a head of mussy hair emerged just above the edge of the building; stood on tiptoes on the fire escape, pressed against the concrete, wide, pale blue eyes peering into the dusk, darting this way and that until they landed on the figures of the two men and froze. A figure no more visible than a mischievous black cat in the night. The cat had heard whispers, gone looking for prey, a prize she could carry about and tease all the other hard and mean alley cats with, and she had found what she had been searching for. A soft cackle, too soft the pair to hear, began to rise into the night from the body of the creature. Nikki Cross’s mouth split into a wide, gleaming grin, and she exhaled heavily.

Oh, what a story this would be to tell.


End file.
